


Stroke

by theadventuresof



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, Suicide mention, fuck idk, pwp sorta, there's a blowjob in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shouldn’t miss dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stroke

seasons, seasons, seasons—

no spring this year, just one wet week then baking heat.

I looked up and a year had passed

since I had thought about time.

 

how quickly the moments fall away

from reaching hands the way snow falls from gray

eternity—

 

pale fire on the windowsill,

a patch of faces on the west wall,     

and a sunken mattress

beneath their searching eyes.

 

the first night

I woke up and couldn’t remember—

the green was the same,

and one dappled golden square

of sunlight hitting the wardrobe.

 

 

(and the earth makes a circle once more.)

 

* * *

 

There is nothing left for Light Yagami in Tokyo. Not a shred of hope, not a single miraculous glimmer of divine reason. He tugs at a loose strand on the left sleeve of his cardigan, and thread after black thread begins to unravel. He’s torn up his fingernails past the quick, and they’re stinging and throbbing worse than the throb in his head. If Sachiko could see his hands she would shout. I thought you had stopped doing that. Light, you told me you had stopped picking at your nails.

Picking at his nails, biting at his lower lip, scratching at his bare shoulders in front of the mirror when his hair still glistens dark and wet from the shower. He is a skeleton of a seventeen-year-old, even after a week and a half of square meals, and he can’t decide which one he hates more: the state of his body or the inconvenient daily necessity of eating.

He’s watching the sun set against the train tracks in a golden haze, afraid to look away in case he—in case he what? Misses something? There’s no one here. No one would notice him slipping away from the world. The world is glowing, rosy and dim like the last coals in a fire, and Light is a single spark, about to fly into the cold and be extinguished. He lets his eyes slip closed and the world, blessedly, fades to deep violet.

He shouldn’t miss dinner.

* * *

Light cries in front of L at the worst possible moment. L’s head is buried between his thighs and Light is shaking, writhing, curling his hands into fists in L’s hair—L continues relentlessly, tilts his head to get at him better, humming softly with Light in his mouth so that the vibrations from his voice send him into fits of ecstasy. Light moans his name involuntarily and hooks his knees around L’s shoulders, pulling him closer, closer—and then he spills and his vision is black and dazzled and the world has gone blurry because all that matters is that L’s mouth is on him, wet and burning, and that molten pleasure is bursting like a thousand white-hot stars in his pelvis.

As Light comes back to the plane of reality L coughs and drags a fist against the corner of his mouth. He’s as breathless as Light, his cheeks glowing red and his hair damp and disheveled, and it occurs to Light how oddly beautiful he looks. He notices the wetness in his eyes then, but it doesn’t occur to him to hide his face. The first tear falls and it’s like a dam breaking, and a moment later he’s weeping into his hands. Clean. He feels clean. It’s a good feeling, to cry, he thinks vaguely, and watches himself cry as if from afar, his face hardly his own the way it’s contorted from sobs, the way his eyes are rimmed with red and his mouth is twisted around his teeth.

L straightens up, still catching his breath, and Light hates that his face is completely unmarred by tears.

“Light.”

Light holds his breath, willing the wracking sobs to stop, and looks up at L. Beautiful. He looks beautiful. The way Light is supposed to look. L must not see him as anything other than—Light. A suspect. Kira. An enemy. Showing weakness like this—it’s not part of the game.

“Six months ago,” Light says, the words tumbling half-formed out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I almost committed suicide. I would have done it, I was so close…but I decided—”

But that’s what happens, isn’t it? Inevitably…they’ve transformed, from a pair of dueling minds to a pair of twisted bodies and now it’s souls. Souls are the next thing to lay exposed, weak and bare and raw and naked—more naked than Light is right now, panting on the loveseat with L perched to his left, peering at him in confusion and dread…

“Decided what?” L says.

“I…” Light begins. “I decided not to. I don’t know why. I didn’t know then and I still don’t now.”

L takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and deliberately. Something clicks in his throat as he exhales. Light can almost see the thousands of thoughts racing behind his eyeballs, chasing each other and bouncing off the inside of his skull. It’s absurd, all of this. He’s collapsed naked in a chair with the greatest detective in the world splayed on top of him, dazed and post-coital and discussing his nearly-attempted suicide, and L is brushing his hair out of his eyes with nimble fingers and kissing down his jaw.

“But you didn’t do it,” L says, in that same purr that had driven Light to orgasm just minutes before.

“I didn’t.”

“I’m glad.”

Light turns. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

L plays with a loose thread on the arm of the loveseat and now it’s Light’s turn for the thoughts to race behind his eyes. What had stopped him that day? The nagging feeling that he’d be missing something if he left? That for someone with a mind like his, there had to be some greater purpose…some untapped potential? That he needed to do something, he just wasn’t sure what it was yet—only that it wasn’t anything to do with joining the NPA?

And that something had come along soon enough, hadn’t it.

No point, Light decides, thinking about it now that he has the note. Of course he has a purpose now. It was the hope of having a purpose that kept him going, no matter how small the hope was.

Light smiles and kisses L’s lips as tenderly as he dares—as if they’re not doing this for the thrill of the chase, as if this whole performance isn’t just that—the physical element of some elaborate game—as if they’re normal people in love and this is just a wonderful night in a hotel suite.

Tokyo glitters outside the window. Kira-kira.

“I’ve got to go over those security feeds from the 19th before tomorrow morning,” L says, and as he stands up from the loveseat and pulls on a bathrobe Light realizes how cold he is. He reaches under the coffee table for his cardigan.

“Right,” he says. The spell is broken. “I’ll be going, then. I’ve probably already missed dinner.” 

**Author's Note:**

> a tiny fic for a large idea. loosely based on a series of RPs with princedarcy, and the idea that L and Light probably started hatefucking during the university arc but accidentally developed genuine feelings for each other, which are displayed pretty close to canonically during the yotsuba arc.


End file.
